“That chap is going to do something foolish,” he murmured, “and the worst of it is, he’s going to break up my combination. I mustn’t leave him alone for a minute until I get hold of that money. Suppose he keeps it here, and then they shoot him in the street? Good-bye cash! How does one prove that money belongs to one? I could ask him for a key to this room, but he might get suspicious, and I don’t want him to do that. Let’s have a look at that key.”
Quentin went to the door; the key was small, and the lock new; doubtless Pacheco himself had put it on.
“I’ve got to take an impression of it,” said Quentin to himself.
The next day he presented himself at Pacheco’s house with two pieces of white wax in his pocket. He listened to the discussions and intrigues of the conspirators as usual, stretched out in his armchair. When he noticed that they were about to go, he said to the bandit:
“By the way, comrade, let me have a little paper and ink, I want to do a little writing.”
“All right; here you are. We’re going to El Cuervo’s tavern. We’ll wait for you there.”
Quentin sat down and made a pretence at writing, but noticed that some one had stayed behind. It was El Taco. He went on writing meaningless words, but El Taco still remained in the room. Annoyed and impatient, Quentin got up.
“I’ve forgotten my tobacco,” he said; “is there a shop near here?”
“Yes, right near.”